Identity Crisis
by Pyrephox
Summary: *COMPLETED* Including Epilogue.
1. Chapter One

Author's Notes: For the purposes of this narrative, the events and characters of the Winds, Storms, and Owl books never happened or existed. Thus, all characters are original. However, historical figures (Vanyel, Sunsinger, Lavan, and others) do exist in exactly the same way as the books.  
  
Also, I could use a beta-reader/nagger/human sounding board for this fic and others. If you're interested, please contact me at Pyrephox18@aol.com. Finally, if you like this story, *please* leave feedback. No fanfic author likes to write in a vacuum. *grin*  
  
Identity Crisis  
Chapter One  
  
**  
  
It wasn't that she didn't love her parents, Tatya reflected as she carefully rolled up the last of her skirts and shoved them into the bulging pack, because she did. And she knew that they loved her. Which was pretty much the problem, really. With an effort, she pulled the pack closed, and tied the cords securely. "There," she said with satisfaction.  
  
With an unladylike grunt, she swung the pack over her shoulders. It was heavier than she'd expected, and wondered for a moment if she should try repacking it. But what else could she leave? She only had a few of her best winter outfits, her sketchpad, and, sandwiched deep within layers of protective cloth, her small and most precious bundle. Her future. No, Tatya decided, there was nothing more that she could leave behind.  
  
But it certainly wasn't going to be any fun lugging the blasted thing all over the countryside. "Never mind that," she told the reflection in the mirror, "just remember that you're doing what you always said you would. Finally." The fair haired girl who looked back at her appeared dubious. Tatya flashed herself a bright, confident smile, and turned away.  
  
On her bed lay two objects. The first was a heavy, forest-green cloak. Tatya picked it up, caressing the tightly woven wool before putting it on. The second was a folded sheet of yellow parchment. Her parents' names were written on the side that was facing up in her own elegant hand. She stared at it for a moment, then raised two fingers to her mouth, kissed them, and transferred the kiss to the rough paper. "I'm sorry," she whispered. Her eyes stung, and she realized that it was time to go.  
  
Getting out of the manor was more difficult than she'd planned. Tatya had used the route before, regularly, in fact. Out the eastern bedroom window, across the ledge to the angled roofs, then leap to the closest branch of the old oak tree, and she was done. She could have done it in her sleep. Unfortunately, she was learning that there was a world of difference between sleepwalking, and trying to keep your balance while wearing what seemed like a hundred pounds of extra weight, all of which seemed to be deliberately pulling you in the wrong direction.   
  
She found herself making her way across the roofs with aching slowness, slipping twice along the way. Both times, she fell spread-eagle and face down against the cold, ice-slick tiles. The second time, she slid down the roof for a few terrifying seconds, until her grasping hand caught and clung to the edge of a gutter. She stayed there, panting, until the roar of fear in her ears diminished.  
  
Finally, she reached the oak, and leapt for her usual, sturdy limb. Her hands caught, slipped, and then held again...until the weight of the pack once again interfered. Tatya couldn't help the stifled shriek that escaped as she fell. Fifteen feet (and three branches worth of bruises) later, she lay curled in a small ball of agony in a pile of snow at the foot of the tree.   
  
"This," she mumbled when she could breath again, "is not going as well as I could hope." At least it didn't appear that anyone had heard her strangled cry; the house was as dark and silent as ever, for which she breathed a sigh of relief. On arms and legs that shook with cold, Tatya climbed weakly to her feet. The Damned Pack, as she'd mentally christened it, lay a few feet away. One of its straps had snapped, and she thought she saw a tear along the bottom seam. She groaned.  
  
With a little fumbling, the broken strap was tied back together, but it wasn't likely to stand up to any more abuse. There was nothing she could do about the tear, however. I'll just have to hope it lasts until I get to Tannersfield.  
  
The town was a five hour walk at a brisk pace under good conditions. With the way things were going so far, Tatya decided that she probably wouldn't reach it until a little after sunrise. Suddenly, though, as she looked over the snow-blanketed fields and the clear night sky, it didn't matter. She was free!  
  
* * *  
  
Rhys was trapped. Somewhere behind him were the hunters, but it was impossible to tell how close over the drumbeat of Faniel's hooves and his own ragged breath. His back was a burning agony--ironically the only part of his body that felt the least bit warm--and with every movement, he could feel the three arrows embedded there working themselves deeper into his flesh. Worst of all was the deepening certainty that desperate flight was to be for nothing. He was going to fail.  
  
*Faniel...*  
  
*Don't speak,* his Companion's mind voice was harsh, *save your strength.*  
  
*Faniel, you'll have to get the package to Tomas. He has to know.*  
  
*He will know, because you'll be there to tell him.*  
  
Rhys smiled wearily. *Old friend, I just want you to know...I wouldn't have changed a thing.*  
  
*Rhys!* Faniel's voice was an anguished wail, *Hang on!* The Companion put on an extra burst of supernatural speed, while the dying Herald on his back tried to concentrate on drawing just one more breath.  
  
* * *  
  
At first, Tatya believed that the snowbank itself had come alive to attack her. Except, she thought as she threw herself to one side, no snowbank had ever screamed like a heartbroken falcon, or had hooves and hair that gleamed in the light of the setting moon like pure silver.  
  
The horse, as startled by her as she had been by it, reared wildly and screamed another challenge. She screamed back, in fear, and scrambled away on her butt from the striking hooves. It was then that the man who'd been clinging weakly to his hold on the reins finally gave up, and slid off to land bonelessly on the snow.  
  
Tatya's eyes widened as she took in the rider's uniform, as white as the snow around them except for a dark patch on the back, and its significance. "A Herald," she breathed. Then she saw the arrows, and heard the frantic noises of the horse, no, the Companion as he sought to rouse his Chosen.  
  
She crawled forward on her hands and knees. She didn't know if she could help--strongly suspected that there *was* no help for the wounded Herald--but found that she could not turn away. The Herald groaned, and she let out a breath she hadn't realized that she'd been holding. He's still alive. He held his hand out to her. "Help...me," he whispered, and Tatya grasped his cold wrist.  
  
The world exploded with white fire, and then there was only darkness.  
  
*Rhys, you must get up!* The first disturbing thing Tatya noticed about the deep, male voice was that she wasn't hearing it with her ears. The second, and far more disturbing, thing was that it wasn't speaking to her.  
  
*Fainel,* a second male voice invaded her aching skull, *what in the Havens is going on?*  
  
"Am I dead?" she asked, and was relieved to discover that her voice, at least, still used the normal channels.  
  
*No,* replied the first voice. It sounded unaccountably relieved about something. *I don't know what's going on, but you both appear to be alive. In a manner of speaking.*  
  
*A manner of speaking? What the hell does that mean, Faniel? Why can't I see anything?* There was an edge to this voice that suggested that, while the speaker was not hysterical at the moment, hysteria was being considered as an option.  
  
*Child, open your eyes.* Without really thinking about it, Tatya pried her eyelids apart and blinked owlishly at the equine muzzle an inch from her face.  
  
"I'm not a child," she muttered, "and my head hurts." And it was cold, but she thought that went without saying. She pushed the Companion's nose aside, and got to her feet.   
  
The scene was much as she remembered it, except that the Herald now lay face down in the snow, and he wasn't moving at all. From just behind her eyes, she felt something, someone, survey the corpse with stunned horror. And it wasn't her. *T-that's my body!*  
  
"What's going on, here?" She meant it to be a demand; but for some reason she just couldn't summon up the energy. In fact, she was finding it difficult to think or feel anything at all. It was as if her mind was adrift in some remote, fog-enshrouded place where nothing much mattered at all.  
  
*It would appear,* she heard the voice called Faniel say from a long way away, *that you have somehow transferred your essential self from one body to another at the moment of...death.*  
  
*Good gods,* the disembodied Herald swore softly.  
  
Tatya probably would have echoed the sentiment, except that the fog in her mind chose that moment to close in on her, and drag her down into darkness once again. 


	2. Chapter Two

Identity Crisis  
Chapter Two  
  
In which Tatya and Herald Rhys refrain from killing each other, for the good of the Kingdom.  
  
* * *  
  
*Child, you must wake up. This is not a good time to faint.* Tatya woke to find Faniel dribbling bits of half-melted snow on her nose.  
  
"Is there ever a good time to faint?" Tatya asked with an involuntary giggle, as she sat up and tried to rub feeling back into her face. Thankfully, the numbness had retreated from her mind. Unfortunately, it had decided to take up residence in her body, instead. "I think I'm going to get frostbite."  
  
*You will if you don't stand up. It's *cold* in this snow.* That was the voice of the dead Herald. Tatya shuddered, and refused to think about it. She stood, instead, and began to shiver in earnest as the winter breeze tugged at her wet clothing. *Good girl. Now, you've got to get something from...from the body.*  
  
"My name is Tatya," she snapped, "and you can't want me to touch him...he's dead!"  
  
*Believe me,* Rhys said wryly, *I'm not looking forward to it, either. You just need to get the satchel I'm...he's...carrying. You can use my knife to cut it free. It's in his belt.*  
  
Tatya looked imploringly at Faniel, but the Companion just pawed the snow, and looked into the distance behind them. *You must hurry, Tatya,* he said.  
  
"I didn't ask for this," she muttered, as she reached out with a reluctant foot to turn Rhys' body over. It was still warm, and when she turned it over, it flopped. Somewhere within her, Tatya could feel Rhys swallow and close whatever passed for his eyes in there. She wished that she could do the same.  
  
She found the knife, and began to hack through the strap holding the satchel, emblazoned with the seal of Valdemar, to Rhys' body. As she worked through the sturdy leather, she couldn't help but sneak looks up at the Herald's face.  
  
He had been, or was, a man of middle years, with tanned skin and light brown hair. His face was square, and would have been handsome except for the nose, which looked like it had been broken several times. He'd had a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His eyes were as blue as his Companion's, and as she studied them, she realized that the moisture that covered them was beginning to freeze. *Please,* Rhys said, his mental voice hoarse, *look somewhere else, Tatya.*  
  
She swallowed, and dropped her eyes back to her work. She didn't look up again until she'd sawed through the strap and pulled it away from the corpse. Task accomplished, she stood and staggered away to be quietly sick in a spot of undisturbed snow. Afterwards, she took Rhys' advice, and washed her mouth out with snow. If nothing else, it made her tongue so numb that tasting _anything_ was pretty much impossible.  
  
*I'm sorry to hurry you,* Faniel said, and to her amazement he really did sound sorry, *but we must be going. I believe I've found your things.*  
  
"Going? Where are we going?" She looked over at the Companion, and saw him standing next to a sad little huddle of fabric that was nevertheless larger than she remembered. "That Damned Pack broke again, didn't it?"  
  
*It would appear so. And we must go to Haven, to deliver the message that Rhys and you carry.*  
  
The pack had split clean through the bottom sometime during her repeated tumbles into the snow. Her clothes were unfolded, and Faniel had placed them in a rough pile. With both Rhys and Faniel urging her to speed, she abandoned any thought of trying to salvage the pack, and instead just scooped up the wet clothes and shoved them into Faniel's saddlebag. When her hands found the hard edges of her secret bundle, however, she paused. Nodding to herself, she flipped open the top of the satchel that was now wrapped around her waist, and dropped the bundle inside. *Hey!* Rhys cried, *That's very important, you can't just use it as a purse.*  
  
She ignored him, and put her sketchbook in the other saddlebag. At least some of the pages would be badly stained by the snow, she thought sadly. It was about this time that the 'obey authority' reflex she'd been following, carefully trained into her since birth, stopped functioning. And so did she. *Tatya,* Rhys said with obvious impatience, *we need to get going.* Then, as if the thought had just occurred to him, *Can you ride?*  
  
"Of course I can ride," she snapped. "I've been riding since I was three. But I'm not going." She crossed her arms over her chest, and glared at the Companion, since his Herald was beyond her reach.  
  
Faniel snorted, and tossed his head in disbelief. Rhys' reaction was a great deal more satisfying. *What do you mean you're not going? You _must_ go! We have a duty to deliver this message!*  
  
"It's not my duty," she pointed out. "I never asked for you to..to invade my mind, and I don't see why I should upset my plans just because you say so."  
  
*This is lunacy,* Rhys snarled. His fury was a palpable thing beating at the edges of her mind. *I'm a _Herald_. I have a duty to fulfill. You can't just say 'no, I'm not going'!*  
  
"But that's the point. I'm not a Herald. So," her eyes narrowed, "what's in it for me?"  
  
*What's...what's...* His voice dissolved into stunned silence.  
  
*She has a point, Chosen.* Faniel sounded mildly amused, but a darker edge lurked just beneath the surface. *Would we expect a Guard or regular courier to go out of their way to help us, without compensation?*  
  
*But, I'm stuck inside of her! It's not like I can just find someone else.*  
  
*Which means she's got an excellent bargaining position.*  
  
*Fine.* Rhys turned his attention back to Tatya. *What is it that you want? Keep in mind that, as a dead man, my resources are rather limited.*  
  
"Right now, I just want information. I want to know what's going on, and why you're inside of my head. _Especially_ why you're inside my head."  
  
*Done,* Rhys said flatly. *Although I don't have the answer to the latter, I'm as eager to find out as you are. What's going on besides that, I can explain. But please,* his voice rose, *can we talk about it on the way?*  
  
"All right," she said. Having established her independence--such as it was--she felt that she could be magnanimous. She mounted Faniel, who snorted with relief, and said, "I was planning on going to Haven, anyway."  
  
Faniel sprang into a gallop, and as she bent low over his neck, Tatya reflected with no little amazement on just how realistic Rhys' grinding teeth sounded, despite the fact that they had nothing to do with any physical jaws.  
  
* * *  
  
The four horses, their breath billowing outwards in damp clouds in the frost air, approached the clearing with caution. Three of the riders dismounted at the curt nod of the fourth, and crept towards the body, sprawled on its back in a pile of snow. When no enraged Companion leapt forward to trample them into red smears, they breathed a sigh of relief, and two men began to search the body with brutal and impersonal efficiency, while the third kept watch.  
  
They found nothing of interest. The third man turned to his master, still cloaked and hooded on his horse, and licked his chapped lips. "My lord, it isn't here."  
  
The figure nodded. "Kill the Herald, and the message goes on. I suppose the horse is carrying it." His voice was deep and rich, and bore the unmistakable stamp of the nobility.  
  
"Should we go on?"  
  
"No," the figure shook his head, "there isn't a horse born that can catch a Companion. I'd hoped that concern for its rider would make it stop, but now?" His hands tightened on the reins until the nearest of the servants could hear the leather creak. "Now all we can do is return to the estate, and prepare."  
  
"Prepare for what, my Lord?"   
  
"Visitors, of course." Beneath the hood, there was the suggestion of a cold smile. "We wouldn't want to be inhospitable." He turned his horse sharply, and began to ride back the way he came. The other three men scrambled to mount and catch up.  
  
None of them noticed the torn remains of a leather pack, half-buried beneath a mixture of snow and dirt.  
  
* * *  
  
The next few days passed in a blur. Tatya knew that Companions were not horses, of course. But she'd never realized just how unlike horses they really were. Especially in speed and endurance. The landscape passed them by in a white blur, and when Faniel was in full run--which was most of the time--Tatya could do nothing but hold on and close her eyes against the stinging assault of the wind. Stops were infrequent, just long enough to answer calls of nature, catch a few hours' sleep in a Waystation, or choke down some of the hard journeybread Rhys had in the saddlebags. In between stops, with the wind singing its bitter song in her ears, the Herald told her how he'd come to die. 


	3. Chapter Three

Author's Notes: Nothing much to say here, just a huge thank you to give to Rosethorn, who has been kind enough to suffer through the rough drafts of these chapters, and try to make them worth reading. *bows in Rosethorn's direction* Thank you.  
  
Also, yet another shameless pleas for reviews. Not just positive ones, either. I'll take anything I can get!  
  
***********  
Identity Crisis  
Chapter Three  
  
In which Herald Rhys tells a story, and the Collegium is surprised.  
  
* * *  
  
*Until a year and a half ago*, Herald Rhys said, *I had been riding circuit along the Karsite border. Officially, we are at peace with Karse...at the moment. Unofficially, all that can be said is that we're in a state of non-war. Karse still sends over its uniformed "bandits", and to be fair, the more hot-headed borderers are not above organizing the occassional raiding party of their own. The Heralds' duties there were to try and curtail the raiding on both sides, do their standard tasks, as well as the occassional unofficial foray over the border to gather information or rescue refugees.  
  
*I'd been on duty for about four months when I recieved a mindcall from across the border. My Mindspeaking is not very strong, so I knew it had to be close, and it sounded terrified. Faniel and I set out immediately. We found a family fleeing the Karsite priests. The youngest daughter had been chosen to be given to the Fires, and it was her cry for help that brought me to their aid. It was a delicate situation, since I was in Heraldic uniform, anything I did could be used against the King as an official action of Valdemar. So, instead of showing myself to the family, I used the daughter's precocious gift to give them directions to the border, while Faniel and I did our best to distract the pursuit.*  
  
His voice turned grim in her mind. *It worked right up until the end. It wasn't until then that I realized that the pursuers had been steering the family, into a trap. With them, they had one of their priests. My only options were to reveal myself or leave the family to die.* The flickering images she percieved around the edges of his words left no doubt which option he'd chosen. Tatya got one particularly strong flash of a woman with dull red hair, clad in heavily embroidered black robes, before Rhys ruthlessly cut it off.  
  
*Anyway,* he continued, *We managed to get the family to the Border Guard barracks, before I passed out. I returned to Haven on a stretcher.*  
  
*Under loud and annoying protest the whole way,* Faniel interjected.  
  
*Hush, Faniel. As a matter of fact, the only reason I agreed to it was because _you_ were obviously too weak to be burdened with me.*  
  
Faniel just laughed silently, and Tatya felt the bond between Herald and Companion flow through her like a warm breeze, filled with love and trust. She was awed by its depth and strength...and envious of it, as well. "So," she said, breaking the mood, "what happened then?"  
  
Rhys started, and groped for the narrative. *Ah, yes. Well, it took a while for us to heal, of course. Even after our physical wounds had healed, the Circle decided that we'd probably do best off the Karsite border for a while. So they decided to give us an easy Circuit, in an area that hadn't had any serious problems for a couple of decades." Tatya felt, rather than heard, his ironic chuckle. *Some plan that turned out to be.*  
  
*Things were pretty normal for the first couple of months. We had almost come to the conclusion that all this molly-coddilling might be good for us after all...*  
  
*Speak for yourself, flower-child,* Faniel said grumpily.  
  
"Flower-child?" Tatya asked, and giggled.  
  
*Faniel, I'm going to find some way to get you back for this.* Rhys sighed. *My full name is Chrysanthemum. My parents swear it's because the priest read a happy marriage omen in one of the petals of that flower. I, on the other hand, believe that they simply wanted a girl. Now,* he raised his voice over her giggles, *do I get to continue, or shall I just turn it over to Faniel?*  
  
*Oh, no, Chosen,* Faniel said with a suspiciously large overtone of abashment, *please continue.*  
  
*Thank you. At any rate, we entered the Duchy of Deshannel just as the first frost arrived.* Tatya consulted her memory; if she was correct, Deshannel was about four days ride--on a normal horse--from her father's keep. *As soon as we entered the first village, I could tell that something was wrong. Just a feeling, nothing I could take to the Circle, or that would justify Truth Spelling anyone. Call it Herald's intuition, if you want. Something was just...not right.  
  
*So, Faniel used our recent convalescence as an excuse to become convieniently lame, and the village mayor kindly offered us shelter until we felt able to move on. While Faniel basked in the attention of every child in the vicinity, I did a little poking around. A bored Herald has a license to be nosy. What I found just provoked more questions. First, it appeared that the locals were cheating on their taxes. Not a lot, but it had to be widespread to get the kind of discrepencies that I thought I was seeing. Except that I didn't think these people _were_ cheating, and Faniel agreed. They simply weren't wary enough. Which meant that if something was going on, it was taking place at a higher level.  
  
*Faniel made a miraculous recovery, and we headed for the capital. Along the way, I made some quick investigations into the other villages we passed, and found more of the same. Although the cheating was well hidden, it stuck out like a sore thumb once you knew what you were looking for. By the time I reached Deshannel Keep, we already knew enough to be on our guards.* Tatya felt a surge of melancholy from Rhys. *Not that it ended up mattering much.*  
  
The reminder of his present state appeared to have jarred him out of his recollections. When he spoke again, his voice was brisk, and did not invite further questions. *I'll spare you the details. Turns out the good Duke was, indeed, personally responsible for the discrepancies. He was using the funds to finance some very nasty side ventures. Organized banditry on his neighbors, and black-market supply operations, to name two. The letter that you're taking to Haven is in His Grace's own handwriting, authorizing a shipment of heartsbane to his proctor in Haven. Several names in there are high-ranking members of the Merchants' Guild.* He sounded grimly pleased.  
  
Tatya was dying to know more, like how he'd obtained the letter, but something told her that now was not the time. Instead, she mulled over what he _had_ told her, as Faniel's hooves ate up the distance between them and the capital city of Haven. A distance that became ever shorter, until one night just before dawn, when the world was sleepy and grey, and Tatya felt like she would fall from the saddle in sheer exhaustion, Faniel said, "We're here."  
  
She forced her stinging eyes to focus beyond Faniel's ears, and saw the city walls, and lights of over a thousand torches beckoning them forward. And deep within her mind, she heard one wistful word. *Home.*  
  
* * *  
  
Guard Sergeant Williams was not expecting a particularly rough shift. Palace gate duty rarely was; anyone who had nefarious business within the walls was unlikely to come through the heavily fortified front door, after all. Even on mornings like today, when the fog wrapped vision in moist cotton, there was little chance for any real trouble. The guards were mostly there to take the names of legitimate visitors, and give directions to any new Chosen or recently arrived diplomats. Since no ambassadors were scheduled to arrive and none of the Companions were currently out on search, Williams was basking in the predawn quiet and revising a love poem for his wife, Letty. Lately, she'd been paying a bit too much attention to the fledgling Bards, and he was determined to show her that he could be just as silly and romantic as the best of them.  
  
"Suze," he asked his partner on gate duty, "what rhymes with 'gold'?"  
  
Suzanne shrugged. "Old, I guess?"  
  
"Hair like spun gold/Hope you never get old?" He frowned. "That doesn't sound right."  
  
Suzanne laughed her braying, horse-like laugh. "Oh, gods, Will, just pay a Bard to write one for you. She'd never know."  
  
Willams set his jaw. "I don't want anyone writing love poems for my wife but _me_. Now, are you going to help me with this, or not?"  
  
"Not."  
  
"Fine. Let's see...gold, old, cold, mold, bold? Bold could work..."  
  
"Hey," Suzanne straightened, "shut up a minute. Do you hear that?"  
  
He cocked his head and listened. After a moment, he heard it as well; the sound of hoofbeats approaching. At great speed. The guards shared a worried glance, and came to attention. The hoofbeats continued to approach. The ringing, bell-like sound of hoof striking stone echoed from the buildings and drilled into Williams' ears. He swallowed. Only one four-footed creature had hoofs that sang when they touched stone. From the worried look on Suze's face, she knew it too. A Companion running this close to the Palace at this time of the morning could only mean one thing...trouble.  
  
The Companion took shape as if formed from the mist itself. It was running flat out, and even over the distance, Williams could hear the bellows-like sound of its labored breathing. "Hail, Herald," he called out, and stepped forward. The Companion didn't break stride, but continued to run for the closed gate. Now he could see that clinging to its broad back was a small, childlike figure wrapped in a dark green cloak. He looked to Suze, his eyes wide. "I don't think they're going to stop!"  
  
The sound of silver hooves filled the world. Suzanne took one wild look at the charging Companion, and then flung herself at the gate. "Help me!" Willams ran and put his shoulder to the steel. Between the two of them, they got the gate open just in time; the Companion's heaving shoulders just missed brushing their bodies.  
  
The Companion skidded to a halt in the courtyard, and filled the early morning with its trumpeting cry. Its rider dismounted shakily, and pulled the cloak's hood down to reveal a round, feminine face. She blinked owlishly at the guards, and said, in a voice thick with weary cold, "I need to speak to," her head tilted as if she were listening to a voice only she could hear, "Seneschal Annice and the King's Own." As an afterthought, she added, "Please." 


	4. Chapter Four

Identity Crisis  
Chapter Four  
  
In which Tatya meets the Heralds, and a deal is made.  
  
*******  
  
Tatya clutched the thick clay mug to her, and let the warm of the hot broth warm her inside and out. She didn't look around at the furnishings or the two people in the room with her. The room was not, quite, a cell, but its cloister-like appointments suggested that her current status was only a small step removed from that unenviable position. The guards hadn't said much beyond, "Sit here," and "Here's some broth," but she didn't mind. All she really wanted to do was go to sleep.  
  
*Where is Annice? She should be here by now,* Rhys grumbled. If he had any control of her body at all, they'd be pacing. Without control, he still managed to convey the _sense_ of pacing. Occasionally, one of Tatya's legs twitched, just in sympathy.  
  
*Calm down, flower-child,* Faniel soothed. *I've spoken to Doric, and he's assure me that his Chosen is on her way. It _is_ early, you know.*  
  
*And Byron?* Rhys didn't sound soothed.  
  
*Is coming as well. One advantage of the Seneschal and King's Own being married,* Faniel said in an aside to Tatya, *is that when you have to wake one at an inconvenient hour, the other is inevitably needed, as well. Thus marital strife is avoided.*  
  
She smiled at the weak joke. "I hope they get here soon," she said, blushing as the closest guard gave her a stern look, "I'm about to fall over."  
  
*Patience, children.* Faniel ignored Rhys' indignant snort.   
  
Before the Herald could think of a retort, the door swung open, and the guards sprung to attention. An older woman with loose silver hair and a sleepy-eyed young man entered, their white uniforms marking their allegiance. The woman nodded at the guards. "Thank you, Captain. We'll take it from here."  
  
The Guard Captain saluted, and the guards departed. The Heralds took seats across from Tatya. She ducked her head to avoid the force of their combined regard. The female Herald cleared her throat, and said, "I'm the Seneschal. My name is Annice, and this is the King's Own Herald, Byron. Now, what is this all about?"  
  
Tatya looked up, astonished. "Faniel didn't tell you?"  
  
*You didn't tell them?*  
  
"No," said Annice. "Doric merely said that it was urgent that I see you. Where is Faniel's Chosen?"  
  
*I thought it would be most appropriate to let you explain it,* Faniel said. He sounded just the tiniest bit sheepish.  
  
"Thanks a lot," Tatya muttered, and waved away the Heralds' questioning looks. Then she launched into the short version of recent events, covering what Rhys had told her about his mission, and their meeting, but leaving out her own reasons for being on the road.  
  
"And this," she said, unwrapping the belt holding the satchel to her waist, "is the letter Herald Rhys wanted...wants you to have." Before she could forget, she stuck her hand into it, and pulled out her bundle, then passed the satchel to Annice.  
  
Annice looked at the bundle in Tatya's hand. "What's that?"  
  
"That's mine." Tatya tucked it into one of her pockets, and set her face into a mutinous expression when it looked like Annice would press harder.  
  
Byron sat forward, and expression of intense curiosity on his lean face. "Fascinating. You are actually sharing your mind with another person?"  
  
"That's what I said, already."  
  
He held up a hand. "I'm sorry, it's just all so...improbable! Can he, can he hear us?"  
  
*Of course I can, Bree.*  
  
"He says 'Of course I can, Bree'."  
  
"Fascinating," Byron repeated, and sat back. His eyes, which were a peculiar and unsettling shade of grey-green, gleamed. "I have, of course, read stories...fragments of ancient legends, really, of mages and otherworldly creatures that could take residence in the bodies of other people or animals, but I never expected to see such for myself. I wonder which one of you is doing it?"  
  
Under his stare, Tatya was starting to feel a little like some rare and exotic species of insect. She glanced at Annice for support or distraction, but the Seneschal was staring at the thin sheaf of papers in her hands with total concentration. There was no help there. "Um, it's probably Rhys. I mean, he's the Herald and all."  
  
"Possibly," Byron said, "but I wonder. After all, the Collegium tests all incoming Heraldic trainees for gifts, and I flatter myself to believe that we do a rather good job of it. It's...disturbing to think that we missed an ability of this caliber."  
  
*Well,* Rhys said, *If it takes me dying to reveal it, I'm just as glad it didn't come up until now.*  
  
Tatya smiled. At Byron's raised eyebrow, she relayed Rhys' quip, and the King's Own chuckled appreciatively. "You know," he said, "this could get terribly awkward, using you to relay everything he says. Perhaps you would permit me to touch your mind, and maybe I could hear him as well?"  
  
Tatya's grip tightened on the mug. Let yet another disembodied voice into the sanctum of her mind? The thought sent a shiver of fear down her spine. *Tatya,* Rhys said, his voice gentle, *you don't have to do it if you don't want to. No one here will try and force you.* Beneath his supportive words, however, she felt his wistfulness. How must it feel for him, she wondered, not to be able to talk freely to anyone but herself and Faniel?  
  
"You can," she said. She gave Byron a weak smile. "My throat hurts too much to do all the talking, anyway."  
  
"That's a good girl." Byron smiled back, and she felt pleasure from both Rhys and Faniel as well. She glowed at the approval. "It won't take but a moment to make the connection. Oh," he said, and his voice was suddenly quite casual, "may I test you for Gifts, Tatya? It would make the investigation go more smoothly, and we might as well get it out of the way."  
  
She hesitated, and then nodded. Byron fixed her with his gaze, and then appeared to look _beyond_. A curious sensation filled her mind. It was as if someone were massaging the inside of her skull; not unpleasant, but peculiar. Then it was gone, and Byron focused on her once more.  
  
*Bree? Can you hear me?*  
  
"Indeed, Rhys. And may I say how nice it is to do so again?"  
  
*It's better for me, I assure you.*  
  
"And as for you, young lady," Byron turned his attention to Tatya, "It would appear that Rhys owes you his thanks. It would appear to be your Gift that snatched him from the brink of death."  
  
*Brink? That was no brink.*  
  
"Ahem. At any rate, you do appear to have one active Gift. It appears to be related to Mindspeaking, but I've never seen anything quite like it. If you don't mind my asking, do you have any Heralds in the family?"  
  
Tatya shook her head. "My parents are originally from Rethwellan. My father was a member of a city watch there until he met my mother. Oh," she gasped as a thought struck her, "maybe that has something to do with it."  
  
"Don't keep us in suspense, please."  
  
"Well, you see, my mother was an acolyte at the temple of the Lady of the Frosts. She had been taken there as a baby to be groomed as a priestess. Then she met my father, and they fell in love. She escaped from the temple, and they fled to Valdemar because they knew that we don't let people be taken into holy orders against their will." She looked down at the floor. "I used to think that story was so romantic."  
  
Byron tapped his fingers against one white-clad knee. "The Lady of the Frosts. I believe I have a book that mentioned her, briefly. One of the religions dedicated to the Rethwellan Lady in her aspect as Avenger, isn't it?" He didn't wait for a response. "I'll spend some time this morning chasing down a few interesting sources."  
  
"Before you disappear into the Library," Annice said wryly, then smiled as Tatya jumped. She'd almost forgotten the older Herald was there. "I'll need to you to speak to His Majesty. We're going to have to deal with the Deshannel situation immediately. He has to assume that Faniel got this message to us, even if he doesn't know about Tatya. Does he know about you?"  
  
"I don't see how he could."  
  
"Which is not the same as a 'no', but I'll take what I can get. Even if we go around the Council and make this our priority, however, it'll take a few days to get everything together."  
  
*I'm going.*  
  
"What?" Tatya exclaimed. "Not a chance!*  
  
*Tatya...*  
  
"No!" She leaped from her chair in her agitation, barely noting the warm broth that slopped over her hands from her cup. "I did what you wanted me to, Rhys. But there's no way that I'm going _back_ all that way just to get shot at by some insane Duke."  
  
*It's my responsibility to be there!*  
  
"And it's _my_ body. And we're staying right here."  
  
Byron got to his feet, and with a glance at Annice, approached the scowling form of Tatya. He took the cup from her, and briskly wiped her hands with a fine, white handkerchief. "You're both worked up, and for good reason. Don't try to argue it out now. You must be tired. Why don't you...both get some sleep? You can use Rhys' quarters. I'll call a page to take you there." He reached for the slender bell pull.  
  
*I know the way, Bree.* Rhys' voice was curt.  
  
Byron stopped, and a peculiar expression flitted across his face. "Sorry, Rhys," he said. "But it's a lot to keep in mind."  
  
*You're telling me.*  
  
Annice cleared her throat. "Byron's right. You should both get some sleep. Don't worry about anything for a while, and when you wake up, just send a page to fetch you a meal. I'll have one assigned to your room, Rhys."  
  
*Thank you, Annice,* Rhys said, and then waited impatiently as Byron relayed it. *Let's go, Tatya.*  
  
She would have snapped back at his preemptory tone, except that her outburst seemed to have sapped the last of the energy she had. She made some rather muddled good-byes, and then followed Rhys' directions through the twisting halls of the Palace to a small, but cozy set of rooms somewhere in the depths of the complex.  
  
She retained just enough presence of mind to shed her filthy traveling clothes and set her bundle on a nearby table, before crawling beneath the gloriously soft and thick comforter spread across the bed. *Goodnight,* Faniel whispered, but by then both she and his Chosen were fast asleep.  
  
* * *  
  
"So, what do you think?"  
  
*I think we're short.*  
  
"You're just now noticing that?"  
  
*Oh, I'd noticed before. I just hadn't realized just how short we really were.*   
  
"The Bards have nothing to fear from you, o master of courtly graces," Tatya muttered. She was standing before the floor length mirror in Rhys' bedroom, staring with dismay at her reflection. Upon waking, she'd found the idea of putting on her old clothes again revolting and had taken a much needed bath, instead. Afterwards, a quick look around (while wrapped in a blanket) revealed neither page nor saddlebags in the vicinity. Rhys had offered the use of his Whites, several sets of which hung in the small, oak armoire.  
  
The problem with this, as they soon found out, was that Rhys had been a tall, broad man. None of those described Tatya, who was five feet tall only if she stood on tiptoe, and had been built with rather more curves than angles. Clad in the Herald's Whites, she resembled nothing more closely than a child playing dress up. "I refuse to go out like this."  
  
*Well, there's always the blanket...*  
  
"You're not helping, _Chrysanthemum_." she said through clenched teeth. Inwardly, however, she was more relieved than annoyed. The Herald had been in a playful mood every since they'd woken up, teasing both her and Faniel and, aside from the Whites incident, helping her find her everything she needed. He might just be trying to disarm her before moving in for the 'kill', but Tatya had decided that she was just too tired to keep her defenses up.  
  
*Ow. Okay, okay, I'll stop. Just don't go spreading that name around, I beg of you!* He sent her a mental image of a tiny Herald cowering before a giant Tatya wielding a club. Written on the club in bright red letters was his full name. She laughed, delighted.  
  
"I didn't know you could do that, Rhys."  
  
*When your entire life is reduced to your imagination, it would be foolish not to explore the possibilities.* They were silent for a long moment, each uncomfortable with having broken the lighthearted mood. *I guess we'd better try and find that page.*  
  
"Yeah, we should." Tatya turned away from the mirror and the over-damp hazel eyes of the girl there, and shuffled her way to the hallway. She opened the door, and stuck her head out into the corridor; the young girl who had been standing by the door jumped at her unexpected appearance.  
  
"Yes, m'lady Herald?"  
  
Tatya scowled. "I'm _not_ a Herald. Now, do you know where the Companions' stable is?" The page nodded. "Good, go there and retrieve Faniel's saddlebags."  
  
*Please.*  
  
"Please," she added. The page nodded again.   
  
"Anything else, m'lady?"  
  
*Don't forget food.*  
  
"Oh, right. We're very hungry. Could you bring something to eat?"  
  
"Yes, m'lady." The page gave her an odd look before leaving.  
  
"What was that about?" Tatya asked as she closed the door, and flung herself into one of the overstuffed chairs in the sitting room.  
  
*You mean aside from your unique attire, adamant non-Heraldness, and lapse into the royal we? I can't imagine.* What sounded like a snicker colored the otherwise bland tone of Rhys' words. *And I can't believe I had to remind you about the food. It is _your_ stomach, after all.*  
  
Tatya snorted, and refused to dignify that with an answer. She sat and dozed in the soft chair until the page returned, with the saddlebags slung over her shoulders and a tray of steaming mutton soup, a half loaf of warm bread, and a mug of fragrant tea in her hands. Tatya thanked the page, and wasted no time digging into the meal. It tasted twice as good as it smelled, and she ate with a haste that would have horrified her parents.  
  
As she sopped up the last of the soup with the heel of the bread, she said happily, "That was wonderful! And you get meals like this all the time?"  
  
*When I'm in Haven. Generally, though, I'm out on the road, and then it's journeybread and inns. Not that there aren't some very good inns. For instance, there's this place called the Crested Hen near Deshannel..." Rhys trailed off, and Tatya tensed. Here it comes, she thought, he's going to ask me.  
  
"You really want to go back, don't you?"  
  
*Yes,* he said. *It's my duty to see this through. However, I won't ask you to take me. You were right; you've done enough, and it wouldn't be right to send you into danger like that.*  
  
She was startled, and humbled, by the admission. She cleared her throat, nervously, and then said, "Well, I've been thinking, too. And I think we should make a deal."  
  
*What kind of deal?*  
  
"I've got something I've got to do here in Haven. If Faniel gives me a ride to the Jeweler's Guildhouse, I'll agree to go with you."  
  
*Is this about that bundle of cloth you won't show anyone?*  
  
Her cheeks pinked. "Yeah, it is. Um," her hands twisted in her lap, "if you wanted to see it, I'd let you. If you wanted to."  
  
She felt his smile. *I'd be honored.*  
  
She jumped up from the seat like a dog that's been offered a walk, and hurried to the other room, hopping and shuffling to avoid tripping in the overlarge Whites. When she reached the table, Tatya took a deep breath to steady herself before unwrapping the cloth to reveal a small, lacquered box. She opened the lid.  
  
Inside the narrow box were two objects. On the bottom, a sealed letter addressed to the Master of the Haven Guildhouse, written in a bold, untutored hand. Atop of this lay a silver brooch. The stones embedded in the flat center were chips of topaz, mountain ruby, and amber, arranged in a mosaic of an idealized hawk with wings spread. Framing this, the profile of four silver horses rampant appeared to flow out of the metal, with bright sapphire fragments for eyes. *My gods, Tatya. It's beautiful. Did you _make_ this?*  
  
She grinned, and the tension dropped out of her bones, leaving heady pride in its wake. "I did. I had to do it at night, but Master Raul, the family smith, covered for me, and helped me get the materials. I've sort of been his apprentice for a while now, but he's not a jeweler, and that's what I want to be. So he wrote a letter claiming me as his apprentice, and this is my application piece to become a journeyman."  
  
*I don't understand. Why did you have to hide it?*  
  
She shuffled her feet. The floppy legs of the trousers bunched around her feet and almost hid them from view. "I'm an only child, and my father's heir. Aside from which, Momma lost four before they managed to have me. I love them, I do, but they're so _scared_ that they'll lose me, too. All they ever wanted me to do was be a lady and stay safe. They just want what they think is best for me, you know," she said defensively, before Rhys could get the wrong idea.  
  
*And what do _you_ want?*  
  
"I want to make beautiful things. I got the idea for this from a trader that showed me a piece of cloth he says came from the Dor'i'sha Plains. I don't even know if he was telling the truth." She closed the box. "I want to travel all the way from the North to the South, and find all the different kinds of beauty there are, and bring them back here. My parents, even if they could handle the idea of me around forges and hot metal, would never let me do that."  
  
*So you ran away?* He didn't sound condemning, just interested. Tatya nodded, and wiped her hand quickly along her eyes.  
  
"I know it was wrong, and that they're terribly worried about me. But I'll contact them again, just as soon as I've made a place for myself, and they see that I'll be okay on my own. But I _have_ to do this. Before I lose my nerve."  
  
Rhys said nothing, but the back of Tatya's mind was heavy with the weight of his thinking. She rewrapped the box, and shuffled back into the sitting room. There turned out to only be one or two outfits of hers in the saddlebags that weren't hopelessly wrinkled and didn't smell too badly of horse and mildew. She chose the bright orange skirt and blouse over the more sedate brown and grey outfit. Grey would make her look too much like a Heraldic trainee, she thought.  
  
She dressed quickly, and pinned her hair up. Surveying herself in front of the mirror, she asked Rhys shyly, "So, what do you think?"  
  
*I think we've got a deal.* 


	5. Chapter Five

Identity Crisis  
Chapter Five  
  
In which mysteries are addressed, and Tatya and Herald Rhys make a journey.  
  
*****  
  
Master Tantony of the Jeweler's Guild studied the young girl on the other side of his counter. She stared back, nervous but defiant, and one corner of this thick, chapped lips twitched with amusement. Through the half open door, Tantony could hear the sounds of the street kids that had gathered outside his shop. The Companion, and it could be nothing else, was visibly preening under their attention, and its blue eyes twinkled as it accepted the occasional choice tidbit from a bold boy or girl.  
  
He looked back at Apprentice Tatya, if he could believe Master Raul's letter, and raised one black eyebrow. "So," he asked, "what's a Herald want to become a jeweler for?"  
  
"I am _not_ a Herald," the girl ground out. The denial appeared to be familiar to her. Tantony raised another eyebrow, and craned his neck to take another long look at the Companion in the street. It raised its head, and Tantony could have sworn it _winked_ at him. Tatya followed his look, and the sound of grinding teeth filled the small space between them. "It's a long story."  
  
"I've no doubt about it. However," he looked down at the pretty little brooch, "if you can assure me that the Collegium isn't going be upset, then I'll submit this and Master Raul's letter to the Guild Council."  
  
"They won't be upset," she promised, her jaw set.  
  
Well, it wasn't *his* problem, and the piece was good enough that he'd take a chance. Besides, if worse came to worse, it couldn't hurt to have a Herald that felt sympathetic towards the Guild around. "Well, then, Apprentice. We'll send a note when we've made our decision. Where can we contact you?"  
  
A hesitation. "The Palace, Heralds' quarters."  
  
"Uh huh. And you're not a Herald?"  
  
"No!"  
  
He raised his hand in a placating gesture. "Just asking, Apprentice. Unless there's anything else, I need to get back to my work." He turned back to the papers spread in front of him. Tantony made it a policy never to spend more than ten minutes with any apprentice that he wasn't directly supervising. Otherwise, they might get an inflated sense of their own importance.  
  
She shook her head, and turned to leave. At the door, she paused and looked back. "How long do you think it'll be?"  
  
"Oh, probably a week or two."  
  
"Ah. Thank you, Master Tantony."  
  
"My pleasure, Apprentice. Now, if you'll excuse me...?"  
  
"Yes, of course."  
  
She didn't speak again until they reached the gate of the Palace. There, the gate guard hailed her. "He--Miss Tatya, the Seneschal has requested your presence in her office at your earliest convenience."  
  
*That means right now,* Rhys offered helpfully.   
  
"Thank you," she said, sincerely to the guard, and sarcastically to Rhys. She took Faniel to the stable, and left him in the capable hands of the trainees on duty. As she hurried across the lawns back to the Collegium, she could feel Rhys' excitement. For herself, there was only a nagging sense of dread.   
  
The Seneschal's office was a closet-sized room tucked away between the Library and the Archives. Tatya knocked on the door, and tried to ignore the feeling of being called in front of an irritated Headmaster that filled her. At a clear, feminine voice from within, she pushed open the door and slipped inside.  
  
The office was awash with paper. Records were stacked in, and on, the cabinets, window ledge, and Annice's desk. A couple of folders even huddled on the floor, where they'd evidently been thrown. Somehow, in spite of the clutter, the room seemed to be dominated by the Herald who sat at the desk. Annice looked up from the documents she was signing, and fixed Tatya with steely eyes. "Good afternoon, Tatya. Did you enjoy your ride?"  
  
Tatya licked her lip. "Yes, ma'am," she said. This confirms it, she thought, I now officially feel about five years old. In fact, she'd had a tutor that looked at her in that exact same way, as if he were trying to make up his mind on whether she was worth the trouble. It was no less intimidating from a woman old enough to be her mother.  
  
Annice waved her to a seat, and Tatya took it gratefully. It was only when she looked up from arranging her skirts that she noticed the King's Own leaning against a stuffed bookcase. He gave her a reassuring smile, and his eyes twinkled as she smiled back. Annice put her work aside, and said. "Do you mind if we..." she made a gesture at Tatya's head.  
  
Tatya shook her head, and felt the Heralds establish their connections with Rhys. "Hello, Rhys," Annice said.  
  
*Annice. Is there any word on the Duke's contacts here in Haven?*  
  
Annice grinned; it sat out of place on her habitually solemn face. "Better than a word. Tomas was able to detach a division of the City Watch, with myself and Armsmaster Raven along for support, and make some preliminary arrests early this morning."  
  
*You didn't tell us!*  
  
"We did send a page, but you were asleep. And after that journey, we thought you deserved all the rest you could get," Byron said. Rhys sputtered, and was ignored by everyone. "Anyway," the King's Own continued, "the proctor revealed the whole scheme under Truth Spell. It was exactly as you believed. Good work, Herald."  
  
*I should have been there,* Rhys groused, not appeased by the praise.  
  
"You couldn't have done anything, and if you're going to be at your peak when we confront the Duke, you need every chance to recover we can provide," Annice said, sounding severe. "That is, if you're going?"  
  
Tatya nodded. "We're going."  
  
A previously unnoticed shadow lifted from Annice's expression. "I'm happy to hear that. Not that we would have pushed you into doing anything you didn't want to, but it will make things a lot easier to have the Herald who discovered the problem there."  
  
"In addition," Byron said, "my research suggests that it may be necessary to the resolution of your...situation."  
  
*What have you found out, Bree?*  
  
Byron stepped forward, his face lighting up. "Well, you see, I'd never had much cause to research the religions of Rethwellen before..we're friendly with them, but not really all that connected. However, once I started looking, I discovered a wealth of interesting facts." He appeared to be able to launch into a catalogue of them, but Annice threw him a quelling, but undeniably fond, look. He rubbed the back of his neck, and grinned sheepishly. "Very few of which are relevant to this particular case, unfortunately. The ones that are however...Tatya, you said that your mother was a priestess for the Lady of the Frosts?"  
  
"An acolyte, yes."  
  
He waved away the difference. "Well, it turns out that the priestesses of that particular sect have a reputation, in legend anyway, for channeling the ghosts of the violently dead so that they may finish business left undone. Hence their connection to the Avenger. Now, there are no _recent_ examples of this phenomenon that I can point to, but in the Rede of Wade's Cross there's reference to a Frost priest who carries a 'rageful spirite' within him, and similarly in Bartek's Compendium of Northern Fables the story of Maria Bloodeyes tells of her defeat at the hands of a priestess in 'winter sky blue' who speaks with the voice of her murdered lover. I don't think I need to point out the similarity."  
  
"But I'm not a priestess! What would the Avenger have to do with me?"  
  
"I have long suspected," Byron said, his face tinged pink with excitement, "that much of the 'divine power' manifested by priests is actually a result of their inborn Gifts being trained a certain way. Now," he held up a hand, "this is not to surmise that the gods are not active in our world...the Companions themselves would seem to disprove that, even if they are woefully closemouthed about it." He looked vaguely put out about that, and Tatya heard Faniel chuckle in her mind.  
  
*He's been trying to interrogate us since before he was Chosen,* the Companion whispered in her mind. *For a while, some of the others were convinced that Gally Chose him just so that he would have more opportunities to plague us.* Tatya tried to hide her smile.  
  
Oblivious to the silent conversation, Byron continued. "In your case, Tatya, although your Gift wasn't trained, the conditions were right for it to manifest. The fact that Rhys was a Herald probably had something to do with it, as well. We're not sure how Companions act as catalysts for their Chosen in the area of their Gifts, but it's possible that in Faniel's extremity of emotion, he was able to unconsciously awaken your Gift. Or maybe it was just you. It might even have been the Lady herself. Without having been there, monitoring the situation, I hesitate to speculate." He sounded aggrieved, as if it had been impolite for them to do something interesting without asking him to join them.  
  
Tatya glanced at Annice. The older Herald looked back at her with a smile in her eyes. She lifted one shoulder as to say, 'he is who he is', and then coughed before Byron could start up again. "So now you know what we know, Tatya, Rhys."  
  
*Interesting,* Rhys said, *But not of great importance. What matters most is that it did happen. I'll leave the details to scholars.*  
  
"I don't think so," Tatya snapped. "Does this mean the every time I touch some dying person, I'm going to get a new voice in my head?"  
  
"You plan to make a habit of it?" Annice inquired.  
  
"No, of course not. But anyway, what happens when we go and catch this Duke Deshannel, anyway? Then Rhys' will have his revenge, right?"  
  
"I wouldn't call it revenge," Byron said uncomfortably. He and Annice exchanged a worried look. "As for what happens next, every source I consulted suggests that when the occupying spirit's task is finished it, it moves on."  
  
Tatya froze. Within her, she could feel grief and fear batter at her from both Rhys and Faniel, and she was suspended between them, as fragile as the strand from a spider's web. She began to shudder, while Byron and Annice looked on wretchedly. Lose Rhys? She hadn't realized until that moment just how much she'd gotten used to the sardonic Herald's voice, his jokes and, rarely, his reprimands when she did something that offended his sense of Heraldic duty. How could she lose him, now? Only the presence of the two Heralds kept her from breaking down right there, and even her sense of propriety couldn't stop her hands from shaking, or keep a single tear from flowing down her pale cheek.  
  
*I suppose I knew,* Rhys said at last. His mind voice sounded hoarse and thick. *After all, I couldn't stay here forever. I'm dead.*  
  
"Rhys," Tatya murmured.  
  
*I'm _dead_, Tatya. There's no getting around that. When it's time to go, I'll go. Hey,* he said with a halfhearted chuckle, *maybe I'll get to stick around for my own funeral. Not many people get to say that.*  
  
No one responded to the weak jest. The air in the tiny room hung heavy and still, as if in a tomb. Finally, Rhys snapped, "For Havens' sakes, people! It hasn't happened yet. So we might as well enjoy the time we have left together, and _I_ for one can't do that if you all are going to cry at me!*  
  
*Well said, Chosen,* Faniel said, in a tone just a shade too hearty to be believed.  
  
Annice was the first of the humans to shake herself out of it. She blinked her over-bright eyes rapidly a few times, and then rearranged the documents on her desk. "Yes, Rhys, well said. And there's still much to do. It'll be about two days before we can finish the arrests here and send messages to the Army units on our way. Until, say, dawn two mornings from now, you're free to do as you please. So, Rhys, if you have any...arrangements..." her voice trailed off, and Byron moved close and placed a supporting arm around his wife's shoulders. Tatya barely noticed, lost as she was in her numb contemplation of a life empty of Rhys.  
  
*Tatya?* Rhys' voice penetrated the haze, and she realized that he must have been calling her for a short while, now. The other Heralds were looking at her with pity, and she turned her face away. *I think we should go now. Thank you, Bree, Annice, for everything.*  
  
"Anytime," Byron said thickly. "If you need anything, just send a message."  
  
*Thanks. Tatya," his voice was soft and cajoling, "it's time to go."  
  
She stood like a puppet, curtseyed to the Heralds and left the room. Standing in the empty hallway, she suddenly realized that she had nowhere to go.  
  
*Tatya,* Fainel said wistfully, *Do you think you could come down to my box? I'd like to be with you both for a while.*  
  
"Of course," she said, and headed for the Companions' Stables at all speed, keeping her head down and not meeting the eyes of anyone she passed. When she reached Faniel's box, he whickered softly to her, and reached his neck over her shoulder. When he drew her close, she knew that it was the closest thing he could give her to a hug. She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung for dear life.  
  
None of the three of them remarked on the tears that stained Faniel's silvery coat.  
  
* * *  
  
On the appointed morning, a greatly more composed Tatya sat astride Faniel, clad in a brand-new set of Whites. It had been decided, over much protest on Tatya's part, that it would be too confusing to try and explain why a non-Herald was riding a Companion to the accompanying Guards, and the ones they would later pick up. *Besides,* Rhys had remarked acerbically after an especially long argument, *even if you _aren't_ a Herald, _I_ am. And I'm getting tired of being out of uniform.*  
  
The only reason she'd given in was because she was still all too conscious of their rapidly dwindling time together. Or so she told herself. She couldn't help but admit that the habitual respect and courtesy shown to Heralds, and by extension, her had turned out to be the tiniest bit intoxicating. Right now, for example, she was not quite ignoring the admiring attention of a handsome young Guard. *You go for the over-muscled warrior type, do you?*  
  
*Stop being tedious, Rhys. He seems like a fine young man. Should I sidle closer, Tatya?*  
  
"Both of you knock it off," Tatya muttered, her cheeks pink from more than the cold. She looked resolutely away from the blue-clad Guard.  
  
*Just keep your mind on business, Tatya.*  
  
*Don't mind the flower-child,* Faniel quipped, *He's terrible when he's jealous.*  
  
*I am _not_ jealous!* The mental bellow made Tatya clench her teeth and raise two fingers to her temple, even as her mind reeled under the impact of Faniel's words and the Herald's reaction. Rhys, jealous? The thought sent a tingle of excitement through her body.  
  
"Are you okay?" someone asked at her elbow, and she looked up to meet the intense eyes of Herald Byron. She nodded.  
  
"Rhys and Faniel are at it again," she said.  
  
"Ahhh, yes. If you ever need to calm Rhys down in a hurry, get Faniel to tell you his deep, dark secret."  
  
She giggled. "I already know. Chrysanthemum, right?" She said the last bit in a melodramatic stage whisper.  
  
*Hey, someone could have heard that!*  
  
"That's the one," Byron said. He looked up to the head of the formation, and his eyes grew distant for a moment. "Annice says we're ready up front. Are you ready?"  
  
She swallowed. "As ready as I'll ever be."  
  
"Good." He relayed the information, and the group began to move. 


	6. Chapter Six

Author's Note: I realize that fanfiction doesn't go in much for dedications, but until I'm published with original material, I suppose this will have to do. This story is dedicated to my mother, who died quietly in her sleep Saturday, August 3rd, 2002.  
  
Also, there will be an epilogue.  
  
Identity Crisis  
Chapter Six  
  
In which events come to their inevitable conclusions.  
  
*******  
  
Tatya groaned, and stretched as far as she could in the saddle. She could no longer be said to be saddle sore; that had come and gone a week and a half ago. Now, she floated in a worrying but blissful state of saddle numbness. When the formation stopped for the night, it took her several moments to even remember that her legs were there. The journey that had taken Faniel alone five days as breakneck speed took over two and a half weeks for the massed Guard units. And Tatya felt everyone one of those days in her back, shoulders, and neck.  
  
*Gods, I feel like a trainee again. Why didn't you practice riding more?*  
  
She didn't reply, except to send a mental jab of irritation deeper into her mind. He'd been grumbling on and off the entire trip. She'd eventually realized that he wasn't actually upset about what he _said_ he was upset about, but minor irritations were the only safe outlets for his frustration at being, as far as he was concerned, useless. So, Tatya had learned not to take it personally. Most of the time.  
  
Byron, who had been riding several feet away, swung Gally close. "By your gloomy face, I take it that Rhys is showing his dreadful lack of manners, again?"  
  
*Hey!*  
  
"We're just tired," she said, taking the moral high ground with smug satisfaction. "I don't suppose I can expect him to be civilized, under the circumstances."  
  
"I suppose not," Byron agreed, his face solemn. She felt the tickle as he connected to her mind in time to hear Rhys' indignant response. On the trip, she'd finally gotten used to the idea, realizing that the Heralds would never use their power to do anything wrong to her, and had given them permission to establish contact whenever they wished.  
  
*You're ganging up on me! Faniel, be a pal and help me out, here.*  
  
*Sorry, Chosen, but that's _my_ back you're insulting. You're on your own.*  
  
Tatya relayed Faniel's reply to Byron, and they shared a chuckle. Rhys retreated, sulking. Tatya turned to Byron with a smile. "So, how far are we to tonight's camp?"  
  
He gave her an odd look. "You mean, nobody told you?" She shook her head. "We crossed into Deshannel territory about an hour ago. We should reach the keep in another hour or so. It's almost over." His kindly tone took in more than just the endless ride.  
  
"Did you know?" she whispered to Rhys.  
  
*I...I knew. I just didn't want to worry you.*  
  
"Oh," she said tonelessly. "Thank you."  
  
*Tatya...*  
  
Byron cleared his throat, interrupting whatever Rhys was going to say next. He untied a long, cloth-wrapped bundle from the top of one of Gally's saddlebags. "I've been meaning to ask you, Tatya. Do you have any weapons' training?"  
  
She shrugged, still lost in her own thoughts. "Only with the bow. There's a Spring Hunt where I grew up, and it's traditional for all unmarried girls of a certain age to participate. It's the only reason my parents would let me learn the bow." She didn't mention the fact that they always arranged for her to ride a horse so old that she couldn't possible catch up with the front-runners or the game.  
  
"Then you can use this," he said, and unwrapped the cloth to reveal an unstrung bow and a small quiver of arrows. "You should stay out of the fighting, but if something goes wrong, don't hesitate to defend yourself. If they get to close for you to use the bow, Faniel will see you to safety." She took the bow and arrows gingerly, and slung the quiver across her back. "Can you string the bow?"  
  
She shook her head. "Not astride. If we could stop?"  
  
Faniel and Gally moved to the side of the road, and she swung down with a heartfelt groan, strung the bow with difficulty, and clambered ungracefully back into the saddle. As they started to move again, she tried to find the least awkward place to stick the thing. When she was satisfied, she said to Byron, "Thanks. What will happen when we arrive?"  
  
"It depends on the Duke. He'll know we're coming, unfortunately. It's impossible to hide this many armed men. He may choose to surrender." The King's Own sounded dubious, and Tatya heard Rhys snort.  
  
"And if he doesn't?"  
  
Byron spread his arms. "Then events progress as they must. I'm no Foreseer."  
  
"What _are_ your Gifts, if you don't mind me asking?"  
  
He looked startled. "No, it's no real secret. I'm a Mindspeaker, of course, and I have the Fetching Gift." At her blank expression, he pointed to a nearby sour apple tree. A couple of desiccated fruits still clung to its skeletal branches with grim determination. He held out his hand, and before she could blink, the nearest fruit had vanished from the limb, and nestled securely in his palm. Tatya's grin was delight, itself, and Byron preened a little bit under the attention. "That's all, I'm afraid. My real talents lie in the realm of the library."  
  
"That's amazing!"  
  
*He's married, Tatya. Try not to pant too obviously,* Rhys said sourly, apparently forgetting the link that still bound Tatya and Byron. Both of them colored. Or maybe, Tatya thought, he hadn't forgotten it at all.  
  
"Rhys!" Tatya chided, looking anywhere but Byron.  
  
For his part, the King's Own had begun to hem and haw. "I'd better get up to the front, since we're close." Gally bounced off.  
  
"That was completely uncalled for, Rhys."  
  
*Here, here,* Faniel said, *Gally and I were having a perfectly nice discussion until you showed yourself to be such a boor. I shouldn't wonder if she ignores me from now on.*  
  
*I'm sorry,* Rhys said, sounding genuinely contrite. *I'm just...nervous. And angry that I can't do...anything of the things that I want to do. It's maddening. Please forgive me, Tatya.*  
  
"Of course I forgive you," she said. "Just don't let it happen again."  
  
*No, it won't.* She felt his smile, like a fragment of summer sunshine. For a while they just rode in silence, exchanging the feelings they couldn't find words for through the link that bound them.  
  
*Children,* Faniel eventually said, shattering their fragile rapport, *We have arrived.*  
  
* * *  
  
The Duke was not inclined to surrender. In fact, he didn't even make an appearance, or wait for a formal reading of the warrants to be accomplished. As soon as the King's troops and Heralds entered the city, they were beset by the Deshannel personal guard, and ununiformed fighters that had the dark look of the prisons about them. Annice rode with the Guard. Her primary Gift, as it turned out, was Firestarting. From their position on the hill, Tatya and Rhys could see the attackers' progress measured in gouts of white flame. Byron had stayed with them at the beginning, but joined the fray when it seemed like an infantry unit would be routed by archers armed with flaming arrows. Although he hadn't moved from their side, Gally's rigid stance and Byron's glazed eyes made it clear that he was no longer with them.  
  
*I should be there,* Rhys fretted, *What if they need me?*  
  
"Then they'll call," Tatya said. She, for one, had no desire to race into that boiling cauldron of fighting men and women. It was no place for her, and she knew it. Faniel knew it too, for though she could sense his tense eagerness through her bond with Rhys, he made no move to join the battle, or to support Rhys.  
  
Down the hill, a young Guard was trapped and cut down by two of the prison scum. Tatya looked away, wide eyed, and scanned the plains outside the city, just to give her eyes something else to do. When she almost thought she could look back at the city without embarrassing the Heralds by being sick all over Faniel's mane, something dark flickered at the edge of her vision. "What's that?" she asked.  
  
She felt Rhys look through her eyes, and then a jolt of electricity shot through them. *It's the Duke! Faniel!*  
  
The Companion went from standing still to full flight in one heartstopping moment; he screamed a battle cry as Tatya swore and grasped the reins in a deathly grip. "What's going on?" she cried.  
  
*It's the _Duke_, Tatya! He's getting away!*  
  
Faniel's legs pumped with furious speed, and the distance between him and the Duke's horse closed faster than Tatya would have believed possible. But it wouldn't be fast enough. The Duke had almost reached the trees, and once there, he had the advantage of knowing the land and whatever tricks that he'd prepared. Good, she thought wildly, let him go! If he's free, then Rhys will have to stay. He'll have to stay...with me.  
  
*Tatya!* Rhys' voice was desperate, *You have to shoot him. We can't let him get away.*  
  
"Rhys," she whispered. The wind ripped her plea way, but she knew he heard.  
  
*Tatya...* She felt his fear, his anger, and his sorrow. They battered her and comforted her at the same time. And she knew that she could not trap him into the half-life that he'd been forced into. He would come to hate her as his captor, and she would hate herself.  
  
"I love you," Tatya said, and a bubble of timelessness surrounded the girl and the Companion. She readied the bow, and noticed with detachment that her hands were lit with an icy blue aura. She notched an arrow, and the world narrowed to the bow, the figure on the racing horse, and the space in between.  
  
*I love you, too, Tatya,* Rhys said. She felt his arms come about her, his cheek, warm and rough with stubble, pressed against her own. Together they drew the bow, and waited for that perfect moment for it to take flight. It came, and the arrow sprang like a hound after a deer. The horse screamed in fear as its rider fell, transfixed by a Herald's arrow in the throat.  
  
For the second time in her life, Tatya's world dissolved under an onslaught of white fire. This time, however, she knew what was happening, and as she sank into oblivion, tears ran freely down her cheeks.   
  
And very far away, in a half-built temple in Companion's Field, the Death Bell began to toll. 


	7. Epilogue

Identity Crisis  
Epilogue  
  
In which it is learned that no story truly ends.  
  
*****  
  
Apprentice Manfield walked through the silent graveyard, his hands in his pockets and his eyes not dwelling on any particular tombstone for very long. He hated graveyards, which is probably why Journeyman Macee assigned him this job. She gave every Apprentice tasks that they would hate; she swore it built 'character'. Manfield just thought it built a tremendous case of the creeps.  
  
His Master was up ahead, at a tombstone made of white marble, without flaw. Although he couldn't read the name from where he stood, Manfield could see the blue enamel of the seal of Valdemar that graced the crown of the stone. Since all the Royals were buried in their own mausoleums, that symbol on a grave could only mean one thing: a Herald was buried here. In a silver vase attached to a ledge on the tombstone were a multitude of brightly colored flowers. The flowerheads were like little balls, composed of many triangular petals.  
  
His Master was kneeling before the tomb, rearranging the bouquet to her satisfaction. The last remaining strands of gold in her hair caught the mid-afternoon light, all the more obvious for the grey that dominated. Off to one side, Manfield could see a pair of black kid gloves, and his breath caught. In the five years he'd been in her shop, he'd never seen her without her gloves, and neither had anyone else he'd ever talked to. It was said she even slept with them. He peered curiously at her hands, expecting them to be scarred or deformed in some way. He was vaguely disappointed to find that they were quite ordinary.  
  
As he watched, Master Tatya raised two bare fingers to her mouth, and kissed them. She pressed the kiss to the cool stone, and a trick of the wind carried to him her quiet words. "I miss you still, Rhys."  
  
Then she stood, and turned to find Manfield shuffling his feet and blushing. "Master Tatya," he said, head down, "Viscount Nearcroft has arrived, and wishes to speak to you about his commission."  
  
"And of course," she said with wry humor as she drew on her gloves again, "Havens forbid that the man be forced to wait. It would be a terrible tragedy for my Lord to be forced to experience that thing called 'patience'."  
  
They chuckled together, and began to walk away from the grave. Manfield snuck peeks at his Master from under his lashes, feeling very young, even though he stood a couple of inches taller than she. After the fourth look or so, Tatya's lips curved into a smile. "If you have a question, Apprentice, you should ask it before it burns your lips."  
  
He blushed. "I was just wondering...what kind of flowers were those?" It wasn't what he really wanted to ask, but he thought it was safe enough.  
  
She looked at him, and he had the sudden feeling that she knew everything she was thinking. He squirmed.  
  
"They're chrysanthemums," she said softly, and they didn't speak again until they had left the dead behind.  
  
  
THE END 


End file.
